


The Space Between

by Cryptoad



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Explicit Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 12:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptoad/pseuds/Cryptoad
Summary: Poe likes sex. It’s the only thing he’s good at.(Poe uses sex as a way to cope with his mental illness).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a prompt at tfa kink and then completely forgot to post it. I can't find the prompt anymore but it was something along the lines of "Poe uses sex as a way to cope with mental illness".

Poe knows what they say about him. Sly whispers and appraising looks; _Poe Dameron the resistance bike. Did you know the golden boy was a dirty little slut? He’ll sleep with anyone_. And Poe should hate them - the rumours, the gossip. Would hate them - if they weren't all so entirely true.

***

General Organa touches his arm as she passes. He can barely feel it through the heavy material of his jacket, just the lightest brush of her fingers against him, but the thought crawls, unbidden, into his mind anyway.

 _She wants to fuck you_.

And of course Poe knows that she doesn’t want to fuck him. That the last thing General Organa wants is to fuck him. But that doesn’t stop him from thinking it. Doesn’t stop the words from creeping into his brain like poison, sticky black tar in his head, in his chest. His skin crawls.

The General pauses, glancing back over her shoulder at him, and Poe panics, thinks wildly that maybe she heard it. Maybe he said it out loud.

“Are you alright Poe?” Leia’s voice is soft, her eyebrows furrowed over dark eyes. Poe’s aware that he’s sweating, pits damp beneath his flight suit, the hair at his temples dark and curly with moisture. Is he imagining the flirtatious tone?

He knows, of course, that the General isn’t flirting with him. Just as he knows that he doesn’t want her to flirt with him: doesn’t want to sleep with the woman he sees almost as a mother. But he can’t help flirting back.

“Never better.” And he says it with a shit eating grin and hot, dark eyes and a black, empty hole in his chest. General Organa just smiles, shakes her head fondly. _Poe Dameron - always a flirt, sleeps with anything with a pulse_. And she leaves Poe shaking and sweating on the control room floor, hands pressed against the wound in his chest.

***

The thing is - now that he’s thought about it, he can’t get sex off his mind.

***

He picks a girl up later that night from a shitty bar not far from the base. She’s pretty, a bit plain but Poe isn’t picky. She giggles as they fall through the door to her bedroom, small hands clutching at Poe’s shoulders, his hips. Hot breath against the curve of his jaw.

Poe’s hands work almost on autopilot, peeling away her pretty blouse, stroking and touching. He can’t stop thinking about what happened earlier, about the General. About how totally, utterly fucked up he is. He had messed up, got the wrong end of the stick as usual, can’t get anything right.

The girl moans, startles Poe back to the present, and he realises that they’re both naked now, twisted up together on her bed. Another moan, pale skin writhing against the sheets and the pilot feels a flush of warmth blossom at his naval, creeping up into his chest. This is something he’s good at, he thinks, as his hand works between her thighs and his tongue trails across the skin of her neck. The only thing.

She kisses him, whispers his name against his lips, and Poe lifts her up, presses himself inside her with a shuddering exhale of breath. This is what he’s good at. He doesn’t feel anxious or empty, not when he’s making other people feel good. There’s just the girl panting against him and the strange feeling of being simultaneously both utterly numb and all too alive all at once.

***

Poe doesn’t feel quite so good in the morning. Mornings are never good for Poe, especially if he wakes up first. That quiet, empty stillness, the whole world muffled with the haze of sleep. It’s too disconnected. There’s too much space to think.

He glances down at the girl, still sleeping, her arm thrown haphazardly over her head. Stares at the little shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks, at the soft pink clam-shell of her mouth. He wants to touch her. Wants to make sure he’s real.

 _Just hold her down and fuck her_.

Poe jerks back with a gasp. He can taste blood in his mouth and the acidic burn of bile rising in his throat. His skin feels hot, too tight with the urge to touch her and he digs his nails hard into the soft flesh of his arms, draws blood, wants to hurt himself.

He jerks off instead - quick and perfunctory. Quiet muffled breaths and the dry burn of his own calloused hand against his cock, almost painful. Once he comes he feels empty except for the sick twist of guilt in his stomach. But at least the urge to hurt himself is gone - for now.

He slips away before she wakes up, feeling guilty and dirty and hating himself but already feeling the itch to do it again. 

***

The mission had gone south so quickly that four of his pilots had been taken out before Poe even realised what was happening. Their Intel had been wrong; it was meant to have been a simple scouting mission - they hadn't expected enemy fire, they weren't prepared. Poe wasn't prepared

He orders a tactical retreat, shouting into the comms over the crashing of blaster fire. It’s too slow, another two are lost before they manage to retreat to safety. It wasn’t enough. Poe wasn’t enough.

***

Poe staggers onto the tarmac. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe and the world darkens a little at the edges.

“Commander.”

Heat sears against his palms, through the thick cloth at the knees of his flight suit and he wonders when he had fallen. HIs breath strains through his chest in harsh, ragged gasps.

“Commander!”

“General,” Poe manages as he struggles to his feet with a weak salute. “There was…” he squints at her, feeling dazed, “...a problem.”

Leia regards him calmly. “Are you injured Poe?”

The pilot thinks he might be sick. He shakes his head mutely and Leia’s eyes flicker over his shoulder where Poe guesses Snap is standing, looking almost as shell-shocked as he is. Her face is impassive.

“Debrief in an hour,” her face softens but Poe can see the tightness around her eyes, “take some time to...clean up.” For a minute she just watches him, grief plain on her face, before turning and striding across the tarmac.

Dameron slumps like a puppet with his strings cut. This is his fault. His mistake cost the resistance six of its best pilots, cost six good people their lives; he had let them down, let the General down-

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts.

“Poe...” There’s a graveyard in Snap’s voice and Poe shudders, chokes on a sob.

“This is my fault,” he whispers, “I killed them.”

“No!” The hand on his shoulder turns hard. Poe staggers as Snap yanks him closer and suddenly his friend’s face is right in front of him, black with anger and grief. “This isn’t on you. This was - this was a terrible -” his face crumples and Poe doesn’t think, just crashes forwards and smashes their mouths together, grasping desperately at the material of Snap’s flightsuit.

Snap goes perfectly still.

“Poe-” he manages past the press of Poe’s lips.

“Please Snap, please - I need this - please -”

***

They don’t make it to either of their rooms. Poe pushes Snap up against the brick wall of the hangar, tucked out of sight from the other pilots, and fumbles at his friend’s belt, presses his mouth to the pulse beneath Snap’s jaw. The shaky gasp that follows sends heat shooting straight to Poe’s groin and the tightness in his chest eases, just a little.

“Poe-”

“Mmm,” he hums and Snap’s belt falls open beneath his practiced hands. Seconds later his own belt follows and then his friend’s cock is in his palm, hot and heavy and real.

“Fuck,” Poe breathes and Snap does a complicated little shiver that makes the other pilot’s dick twitch appreciatively. “Fuck Snap - you need to fuck me - please fuck me -” and he’s manhandling Snap into position behind him, pressing his own hands up against the rough brickwork of the hangar, and tipping back into Snap with a needy whine. Snap’s hands clench on Poe’s hips as he jerks almost involuntarily against the other pilot and there are going to be bruises there in the morning. Poe shudders helplessly at the thought.

“Poe I-” Snap lets out a breathless moan as Poe grinds back against him impatiently, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Poe promises. Only - he wants him to. Wants Snap to tear him apart, to bruise him, make him bleed, make him cry. He wants to hurt. He deserves it.

Snap’s quiet behind him, hands resting loosely on his hips and Poe panics because he's losing him; he needs this, needs to fuck and hurt and feel nothing for a little while. So he pushes back against his friend, reaches around awkwardly for his cock and presses it against himself.

“Snap?” He can hear the other pilot’s quiet breaths behind him and his skin crawls with the need to push back, to bury him inside him.

“OK,” Snap says softly and Poe huffs in relief. “OK.” One hand clenches against Poe’s hip, the other winding itself into his curls, not pulling, and Poe pushes himself back hard against Snap until he’s buried to the hilt. 

It hurts.

Pain shoots up his spine like electricity and Poe bares his teeth at the sensation, forces himself not to jerk away from the intrusion. Behind him Snap lets out a choked moan and drops his head against Poe’s shoulder blade, shaking.

“Poe?” Snap manages, pressing a comforting kiss against the pilot’s skin, and Poe should have picked someone else, would have if he'd had more time to think. Snap is too soft, too kind, and he doesn’t deserve what Poe’s doing to him, shouldn't be involved in his fucked-uppedness.

“Keep going,” he murmurs instead. 

He can feel Snap’s hesitation but eventually the other pilot thrusts against him and Poe moans at the pain, writhes with it, and forgets for a little while exactly why he deserves it.

***

Snap avoids him for two days. Which is fine with Poe. Really. The pilot keeps himself busy away from the hangar - a difficult job considering he basically lives in his x-wing - and pretends not to care when Snap doesn't sit with him in the cafeteria. Nobody comments on the sudden absence and Poe is absurdly grateful that he doesn't have to address how he feels about the whole situation. Because Poe doesn't care. Really.

He jerks off eight times on the second day.

It's not as good as a proper fuck but it helps - eases the weight in his chest enough for him to breathe at least. He's sure he could find someone to help him out but he doesn't think he could deal with another person knowing what he is. Not right now.

Someone knocks on the door halfway through his eighth wank. Poe gets up to answer it, tucking himself away as he does so, and he’s too tired to care about the fact that he’s still half-hard when he swings the door open. Only it’s Snap on the other side and suddenly Poe has never felt so guilty in his life.

“Hey,” Snap starts awkwardly. His eyes flit over Poe’s body so quickly that the pilot is pretty sure it’s automatic and, man, is Poe glad that he’s had plenty of practice hiding a semi because Snap doesn’t seem to notice it. Not that the knowledge stops him from feeling guilty as hell about it, stops him from feeling dirty and ashamed.

“What’s up buddy?” And Poe is pretty impressed with how casual he sounds, with how natural his smile feels against his face.

Snap dithers. “I - I just -” And Poe feels that black tar in his head again, whispering. _He wants to fuck you, that’s why he’s here, you’re just another fuck to him_. It’s not true, Poe knows that, but he can’t help the way that his gaze flickers over his friend, looking for evidence, the way he can’t help but see a hot glint in Snap’s eyes that isn’t even there.

Why else would Snap be here, Poe thinks.

“I want to apologize,” Snap whispers, “for what happened in the hangar.” Which makes Poe feel awful because his friend hadn’t done anything wrong. This is all Poe’s fault after all.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Poe says, tasting bile at the back of his throat, “I wanted it.” He somehow feels worse at the relief that falls over Snap’s face. “I should be the one apologizing, I know you had … reservations.”

“No,” Snap says, swallowing thickly. There’s something like pity on his face and Poe can’t help but look away. “I-I wanted it too.” Somehow that doesn’t make Poe feel any better.

***

He fucks another woman later that night. Because he can. Because he’s good at it.

***

Poe doesn’t think he could have fucked this up more if he tried. Around him the desert stretches endlessly, hot and empty and blameless. Poe’s throat hurts, burns almost as hot as the sun, and he swallows thickly against the pain. He deserves it. The boy he killed is never going to be thirsty again.

The knowledge sits heavy in his chest like a stone, a grave, one to add to the countless others that live inside Poe’s head. Blood tastes thick on his tongue and he thinks he might die soon too if he doesn’t find someone quick. He thinks he might deserve it.

Of course that’s when the building looms out of the desert like a mirage and Poe stumbles into the cool darkness of the place somehow, as always, miraculously alive.

It’s a small bar. A shithole. But Poe’s never been happier to see somewhere in his life, never been happier to see people. The bartender offers him some water and Poe sucks it down greedily, feels the pain in his throat dim, the fog in his head clear.

Black tar creeps in to take its place, whispers: _They want you, want to fuck you. They’re gonna hold you down and take it from you_. 

There are people all around Poe. Someone brushes against his shoulder as they lean against the bar and Poe shudders. His skin crawls. _They’re just normal people_ he thinks. No one is even looking at him but that doesn’t help the tight, anxious knot in his chest, doesn’t stop sweat slicking his palm, squeaking against the glass in his grip.

“I’ve not seen you here before.” The voice is gruff and Poe can’t help but jump a little at the sudden intrusion. When he turns he finds a man leaning against the bar beside him, taller and thicker than Poe, a worn leather jacket straining across his shoulders and a rough, weatherbeaten face. This time Poe doesn’t think he imagines the hot glint in the man’s eyes as they flicker over him.

Poe slips easily into flirting, cocks his hip against the bar, says, “that line work often?”

Gruff laughter. “It’s not a line,” the man says and Poe shrugs, fiddles with the glass in his hand.

“Crashed my ship,” he tells him, “don’t really know what else to do.”

The man looks steadily at Poe for long enough that the pilot wants to squirm - feels something hot and sickly rising up from his stomach. Finally something shifts behind the stranger’s eyes and the concern on his face flickers, morphs into something else.

“I’ve got a ship leaving soon.” The man motions behind him before tossing a coin onto the counter for Poe’s drink. “Think I can help you out.”

Poe doesn’t need the sick voice in his head to tell him what he’s thinking.

***

The ground is rough beneath Poe’s knees and sand rubs against his skin through his torn flight suit, but the wall of the bar blocks out the worst of the sun. Above him the man leans back against it, looks down at Poe expectantly, and undoes his fly. Poe wets his lips.

In a sick way he needs this. 

He feels distant. Detached. As if he might float away from his body - as if he had died in the crash along with the poor boy he killed. The man in front of him is solid and real. His cock, when Poe closes his mouth around it, is solid and real too. And he needs this. Needs to feel the heat of it against his tongue, the dull drag of it against his chapped lips, the solid weight of it is as it presses into his sore throat. He needs it to hurt.

The man moans above him, his hips stuttering as he jerks painfully into Poe’s throat. Poe whines around the sensation, squirming, his own cock hard against his thigh. Fingers tangle in his sweat-slick hair to drag him closer and Poe lets them. Lets the man thrust against him. Lets himself forget.

***

General Organa is waiting to greet him when he finally returns. She smiles, touches his arm gently. Poe tries his best to smile back.


End file.
